GW Together Arc 7 World Gone Cold
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: After the guns fall silent: Duo and Heero have issues with one another that threaten to destroy their life together... ANGST. MM love. Matters of gender and sexuality.
1. Chapter 1 World Gone Cold

**World Gone Cold**

Fandom:Gundam Wing  
Rating:NC-15/M  
Pairings:Heero and Duo  
Warnings:Profanity, references to male/male love, angst  
Disclaimer:I do not own them although I would like that. Or at least someone like Duo or Quatre, or perhaps both of them. All rights with their original owners.  
Spoilers:None.

Summary:After the guns fell silent. Heero working for Preventers, Duo at an engineering company. Duo's version of their personal problems.

**xxx**

A rather angsty one. Thank you for the reviews, which I found very helpful. This is a repost with a few minor changes, plus a new chapter, with a third one to follow soon. Let me know how you liked it, folks. Cheers.

**xxx**

Duo's world had chilled by several degrees, and it was his own doing.

He hung his head over the sink and splashed some tepid water into his face, wiped over his eyes and looked up at his reflection in the mirror.

To meet a still reasonably handsome face. Quite a feat at almost forty, he mused listlessly, though there lay shadows under his eyes and lines creased around his mouth and at the root of his nose. He gave himself another tired, critical glance and turned away to towel himself dry. Old routine, scrub until the pallid skin reddened, then soothe with some cream.

God, he hated growing old.

He felt old.

Life had become comfortable. Ten wild years of war and horror had faded into some nightmarish memory, too weak to jump at him at night, merely causing a shudder now and then when he forgot his guard. Eight good years with Heero had soothed him, settled him somehow.

He walked into the bedroom to get dressed. Heero had gone out to work already, early this morning because they would not share the car – Duo had time off. Time to think. Way too much time.

Thoughts were churning in his head, and his head told his guts to cramp.

He dragged on his clothes, with a slight frown and a twitch of disgust on his lips. His hair slid over his shoulders and tickled his jaw; he wiped it back absentmindedly. He had started growing it again, almost unconscious of what he was doing. Definitely not wanting to know why he was doing it.

Heero could be so damn oblivious.

"Nice," he had commented, sliding his fingers through soft brown silk, with not a grey thread in sight yet. "You look lovely."

Duo felt a twinge in his chest and hastily buttoned up his jeans. Thank god for unisex rags, he thought rather incongrously as he rumbled down the stairs to get coffee in the kitchen, otherwise he might have ended up wearing drag now and then. On the counter stood the little tray Heero had readied for him this morning, with a mug of coffee gone cold and a fruit juice. He picked up the mug with resigned bitterness and poured half of its content into the sink.

Heero woke him with this arrangement every morning, except when Duo had time off and Heero had to go early. Then Heero would leave the tray by his bedside, kiss him good bye for the day and sneak out, trying not to wake him.

He would usually wake anyway, drag his eyes half open and mumble his thank you, nice coffe, every time. Routine. Friendly, soothing small things. If they both had to go out, they would have their coffee together, in bed, Heero dressed, Duo still in pyjamas or nothing. When Duo did not have to go out, he would snuggle down for another round of sleep, and his drink would go tepid.

This morning Heero had shouted up from the kitchen, "Want another coffee?"

"No thanks," Duo had declined. Heero did not insist, just left.

Duo watched the kettle coming to a boil. He felt hollow, his eyes hot and grainy from staring at the computer screen almost all night long.

Heero knew Duo's work was not going too well. Company downgrading. They had not much use for someone who spent ten years warring, without university degree or carreer ambitions. Duo felt out of place, tried to do his work and get away with as little as possible. Sometimes he dodged out of work altogether, and he despised himself for this slack, resulting in even less motivation.

He had taken to drinking more than his usual glass of sake in the evening. At first it soothed him and brightened him up. Then it helped numbing him. Some evenings it would be two, three glasses. Sometimes a bottle. By himself.

Heero watched, concern in his eyes, but said nothing.

Duo pressed his eyes shut and sucked his lip between his teeth. The kettle hissed and boiled, clicked off; he spooned some more powdered coffee into the half-empty mug and filled it up with hot water.

"You think I'm drinking too much?" he had asked once, waving the bottle at Heero. He had drunk too much years ago, like the father he never knew, to sail through the blackest times of his life. He could not remember much of it – a heavy grey haze wrapped it all up – though being a drunkard terrified him.

He loathed himself for it. He just could not help it. Not any longer.

Outside, the sun was shining. Spring had arrived late this year, but with unrivalled glory, in a spate of gleaming blue days and a haze of birdsong, the brilliant green of new life veiling the blackness of winter.

Duo went into his room, his own little space, a dusky cubbyhole under the stairs with a chair, some shelves, a computer, and set the mug down by the screen. Turned on the machine and logged onto the internet. Desperate for some mail, something, someone to talk to him, tell him what Heero used to – I need you. Want you. Come to bed.

It had been him asking Heero whether he could stay, all those years ago. In Heero's life, in his arms, in his bed. Heero had responded rather enthusiastically, taking Duo somewhat by surprise.

It had taken time to heal, and Heero had helped, soothed, been around with endless patience as Duo ploughed his way through waves of bleak depression, drink and near-madness. Before he could dare giving in to a fragile kind of happiness.

Duo gasped at the wrenching feeling in his chest. Thankless, he cringed, how can I be so damn fucking thankless.

But he had tried to make up for it, had he not? Blown fun into Heero's steady, slightly dull existence, put colour into his life and a prickly edge of irrationality. Heero seemed to like that, though when Duo asked, curious and wracked with self-doubt, why he should be so incredbily lucky to be loved by Heero, there was no answer, just a shrug, a smile, soft eyes shining at him.

No answer.

Duo's flame, the fire that had flared so high as to almost consume him when he alighted with Heero, had been lovingly contained to burn brightly without destroying, and now it had burned down to the embers. Burned out. Cooled down. And he was desperately trying to hold on to the heat. He hated ashes and he was afraid of the cold.

Heero was warm, but not burning.

Duo checked his mail, found no new messages, and thought listlessly about the missed appointment with his university tutor. It had been scheduled at eleven, not twelve. Finding her office empty, he immediately realised and telephoned to leave an apology on her mobile answerphone. He should have been mortified. Instead, he found it embarrassing, but in a somehow distant way – it did not touch him. The course was great, she was good, he had hoped for a new lease of life, an impetus to keep him going.

It was not enough. Not now.

He turned the little radiator by his chair on full and wrapped a fleece jacked round himself. It was brooding hot in the small room. He shivered with cold.

Duo was sensual, Heero was practical and rather fond of his routines. His work was hard, Duo knew, and he ran their life, allowing Duo time to indulge his little quirks. Writing stories, for example, which no one bought. Now they were turning into a lifeline, something Duo could use as a screen, a shield behind which he could hide from life.

He had taken to spending days and nights in the cupboard with the computer for company. Reading things he wanted to try with Heero, for love. To help them both.

Heero did not like it. "Can't feel you," he would grit through clenched jaws, or "Hurts."

Duo could feel him though, and what he did to Heero turned him on more than what Heero would do to him: another routine, gentle, well-established, frustrating like hell. Duo felt used, knew it was unjust and almost cried with anger and disgust at himself. Tried to talk about what he wanted, needed, meant to give and share, only to realise it caused Heero intense discomfort even to consider.

Duo tried writing explicit things, pouring his longings into his stories where he and Heero would follow them through in disguise. Brought himself to show them to Heero who liked some of it. It did things to him. Other stuff put him off. Duo felt the worse for it. Dirty, like a whore. And they were back to routines.

He longed for Heero to swipe him off his feet, like he had at the beginning, make love to him until he melted into a haze of lust, be a bit firmer perhaps – he could take it, he wanted it – anything, really.

But it had been him seeking, coaxing, imploring, suggesting, begging. Almost every time. Until he felt disgusted with himself, fuckhead that he was, and a total failure for he could not open Heero's eyes to the pleasures, could not make Heero want him enough to go all out mad and reckless, disregard a little pain and discomfort and go for it.

He needed this more than Heero who was content to sleep with him now and then in his tender, caring, a bit lazy way. It was usually Duo igniting the spark, Heero feeding off it, coming into a nice glow and leaving it at that. No offer to reciproke. Duo had been his first real lover, discounting a one-night-stand for defloration, which he hardly remembered or did not want to talk about because he had been drunk, and one attempt at having a relationship which ended in a friendly, dispassionate way because the girl went back home overseas as planned.

Duo taught Heero some shades of making love, finding it hard work after the initial rush of passion, enjoying it, hoping for something to ripen, happy to leave his traces on the blank canvas of Heero's innocence. Yet he had overlooked something, and it dawned on him now, after eight years: Heero did not have the same urge, kept more to the conventional things. He did not refuse to look at spicy stuff in magazines or elsewhere, but he showed no great interest either. Duo sought things out, Heero would cast a glance, smile, perhaps blush a bit, but never get the message that Duo wanted to try some of them, no kink, no pain, just the nice bits. Lustful play, for pure joy, for love, for the pleasure of living, taking and giving.

Duo opened the web browser. He should be doing housework, or something useful. Try to sell the books he had written, tidy up the tomes of stories and present them to some agency, read up on stuff for his masters degree. Or at least load the dishwasher.

He could not be asked. Sadly, he began to browse for the things that had replaced what Heero and he used to do in bed. Or what he had dreamed of doing with Heero in bed. After all, there was no point in fooling himself. He had thought that perhaps he was not what Heero needed, either. One day he had tried to dress in a more feminine manner, brushed his growing hair to a shiny wave of chestnut down to his shoulders and slicked on some lip-gloss. If Heero did not like this body, perhaps Duo could slip into another one for him? Heero had given him a startled glance; then his lips had curved in a cautious smile. "Looks good."

"Perhaps I should change," Duo had seized upon the opportunity. "Everything. Myself!"

"You're perfect as you are," Heero said promptly, with the tiniest click of alarm in his voice.

"I don't feel like it."

Heero had offered no reply to this.

"I need to talk to some folk," Duo prodded, trying to swallow back the lump of fear and misery in his throat, "I'm a mess. I'm confused."

"Hn." Heero shifted uncomfortably in his chair, eyes wandering to the television, hands on the keyboard of his laptop for hold.

I need to talk to you, Duo thought desperately, but Heero's face had closed, the set of his shoulders stiffened. Heero did not do confused. He disliked this sort of issues in particular. How could you be confused about your sex? It disgusted him.

So Duo disgusted him?

Duo shivered, clicking on a site that promised stories. Hot, passionate, sweet stories of people losing, finding, loving, struggling for one another. Same sex, opposite sex, it did not matter – the issues were always the same, as old as humanity. The fights were the same. Love was the same.

Heero disliked fighting, too.

That particular evening, Duo had slipped under the covers to him, naked and hot, and snuggled up against his warm, pyjama-clad body. Heero had caressed him, kissed, in this reluctant, gentle way of his, waiting for Duo to ignite the fire. Duo caressed him back the same way. Waiting, feeling the initial passion fade, drain away, leaving behind cold frustration and tears stinging his eyes. Grab me, he wanted to yell, for fuck's sake make love to me. Now. Hard. Show me you want me, know what to do, will keep hold of me no matter what. I need this now: to know that you like me, want me, my body, everywhere. Or play with me. With yourself. You know it turns me on like nothing to watch you playing. Please, Heero.

He had asked before. Often. Timid at first, a bit more direct then, until he felt like he was begging or trying to move a rock. It had hollowed him out. And suddenly it struck him that he was tired of it, convinced he had lost his attraction, that he was perhaps even repulsing his lover. He began to hate his reflection in the mirror and the hunger with which he picked up on compliments from strangers, or ogled crisp young flesh of either sex that usually ignored him. He felt ancient.

So that evening, he decided in a hot flash to try it on, in a last, wretched attempt of defiance. He had to find out. Instead of pleading yet again, he turned his back to Heero, dragging some of the cover with him, and settled for the night. Desperately hoping for a reaction, he listened to Heero's breathing and then turning away in silence. Duo could sense he was puzzled, perhaps a little upset to judge from the slight tremor that ran through his tensing body. But it was not enough to keep Heero awake for he fell asleep before long.

That had been it. Duo's world had chilled. He knew now – no, he was jarred from his illusion that it could be different – that he was worthless, unattractive, useless. He had always known. How could he have deluded himself for so long?

It froze his soul and cracked his mind, brittle ever since those ten years of agony. He could not bring himself to try and talk to Heero. He should, he thought painfully, but how if Heero despised him for being in such a mess? Depression settled in like a black cloud, exacerbating things by making him lethargic and raw. He welcomed it with fatalistic stupor. Let it suffocate him. It would be nice to be dead.

It was unfair. Heero was tired from working and organising their life. Worried, Duo had sent him to see a doctor whose diagnosis was overwork. Still, Duo kept lusting after him, unreasonably and desperately, unable against better judgement to accept that this should be it. Not so much Heero being exhausted, but being unwilling to share other pleasures, showing no interest beyond the occasional comfort fuck.

So that _was_ it, Duo thought bitterly, beginning to skim over the raft of stories listed on the site he had opened. I'll spend the rest of my life fucking myself after getting hot on someone else's fantasies. He touched himself, overwhelmed by a black wave of hopelessness. He could not even bring himself to come much anymore.

They say it starts in your head, he mused, afraid of the detachment he felt sinking between him and Heero.

He did not want this. It screamed at him. It tore him apart, made him bleed inside.

Getting together with Heero had been his dream. Eight years living in a hazy dream of happiness. Hoping for it to last to the end of their lives, for he needed Heero as his hold, his love, his soul mate, or so he had believed. Duo had clung to his hope. But he did not deserve it, never had, and Heero could have an easier life without him hampering his every step, costing his money with his antics and follies, grating on his nerves with his jumpiness.

He had no idea what to do now, and it drove him insane. He could see scraps of his mind float away from him, like paper boats on a river, like sand running between splayed fingers that tried to hold on in vain.

He needed Heero to fight. One spark, from Heero to him this time.

The morning coffee had gone from a loving little ritual to stale routine, cool and dependable. Except that Heero would not peck a kiss on his cheek any more, and Duo offered none. Their evenings belonged to different things, and Duo's nights to the computer, for dreams, love and sex.

He nestled deeper into his chair, drew up his knees and began to read. Forgetting for a while and not forgetting, bitterness slopping in his soul while he read of love and passion and plunged himself into sake and dreams that would end in a drunken roll into his bed or onto the sofa at about four in the morning, if he possessed enough willpower to tear his gaze from the screen, or if his eyes gave out and refused to decipher any more text. Red-rimmed and sandy, they had become permanently inflamed. He did not care.

Duo had yielded.

Duo was defeated. For once. Something that had not happened in ten years of agony, war and murder, for however close he had scraped by.

He could mend it by helping Heero light the fire. Provide the spark.

He could not bring himself to do it. He felt old, his heat smothered, gone, unwanted.

So he kept reading. Drifting away.

His world had gone cold. Frosty. Duo yearned for warmth.

Hell, how could he be like this? It was this very steadyness of Heero that had saved him. Dragged him from the darkness of the gutter and returned him to life, provided light and a focus, his only focus, in a world that was madly spinning out of his grasp. Heero had held on to him. Gently, firmly. Perhaps not knowing what he was letting himself in for – Duo had always suspected this, a nagging little doubt that ate away at the bottom of his soul. Oh, he had been so grateful, so utterly, completely flooded with gratitude. He still was. It was something undiminished, as bright as on their first day, their first night together. Somehow redeeming him a little, making him believe he was not quite as rotten as he felt.

And it condemned him all the same, for he was out looking – it had hit him like a truck to realise that he was actually seeking, if not quite prowling. Left him in reeling in shock. He had never been a prowler, but not good at resisting temptation either, always after the thrill, keen to sense the sharp edge, and would promptly end up cut and crushed because he always invested too much. Playful, naive, stupid Duo. Always throwing in all he had, heart and soul and mind, way too much for most folk who would drop him as though he had burned them. It got him a reputation he did not like because it was wrong.

Heero had not cared then, he did not care now. Took him as he was. But he did not know, Duo thought painfully. Right now, Duo had thrown his arms wide open to temptation, welcoming it, thirsting for it like some parched soul for a drop of rain to flourish again. He could not do this by halves.

Because right now, he was down and out cold.

Duo smirked resentfully to himself. His face had not shown a real smile in days. It felt wrong to smile, and the muscles around his mouth had gone right stiff. He could tell Heero was thrown a bit, quite possibly hurt because he did not understand what was happening. But then, Heero did not do layers, Heero did not split in two, three, four warring minds and get tangled in the mess, hopeless and helpless and twitching with agony. To Heero, he was the cheerful one. Duo with the sparkling laughter and the twinkle in his eyes, with the sharp tongue and bouts of energy fit to blow the planet.

Hah!

He had lost his grip.  
His laughter.  
His sparkle.

Found that now when it mattered, he actually had not much to give, and it was all spent already. So, dull and sullen, he retreated into his dreams and fantasies, switched to autopilot, and his autopilot was set to self-destruct.

He needed Heero to hold him.  
And wondered, as always, whether Heero knew.

**xxx**

**Next chapter: Redemption  
**Heero's view, and some new developments:  
'...I do not understand – that he feels wrong in his skin, that he wants to make love to me in ways we never considered before and that make me uncomfortable...'

'If I had wanted a woman, I could have had one, but I wanted him...'

"They want to put you into a box because people are scared by what they cannot label," I say, remembering too well what we went through during the wars...


	2. Chapter 2 Redemption

**Redemption **

Fandom: Gundam Wing  
Rating: NC-15/M  
Pairings: Duo with Heero  
Warnings: Male/Male love and references to sex.  
Disclaimer: I do not own them. All rights with their original owners.

Summary: Duo has issues, Heero is affected, depression and matters of gender prove a test perhaps harder than anything they have been through before...

**xxx**

Thank you for reviewing – much appreciated. So here is the first sequel chapter – I reckon there will be one more to come.

Let me know what you think, folks. Cheers.

**xxx**

Duo is suffering. I can tell for we have known one another for half a lifetime, we have been fighting shoulder-to-shoulder, and we have been living together for years.

But Duo is slowly drifting away from me, and I do not know what I have done wrong. He tells me things I do not understand – that he feels wrong in his skin, that he wants to make love to me in ways we never considered before and that make me uncomfortable, that he is down and does not know how to pick himself up again.

I feel helpless for I cannot give him the answers he needs. I do not know what he needs. He has started growing his hair again, but it is different from having his braid: he wears it open, dyed a soft, burnished gold that goes well with his dusky blue eyes, and he has taken to using a discreet shade of lipgloss and a bit of eyeliner.

It troubles me. A while ago, he threw out most of his clothes and now tends to dress in mellow shades, jumpers and trousers that make him look softer, almost girlish were it not for his rather angular form and his sharp face. I wonder whether he buys the stuff in the ladies department, though it is discreet enough. Yet he does look different, and I realise that people are looking at him more than usual when we walk down the street. His walk has softened too without looking put-on… he seems more himself than he has been in months now.

But he is not the one I have come to love, and I cannot understand what is going on. I am so tired most days when I get home, and he is unhappy for some reason, and restless. Sometimes I worry that he might damage himself. He is drinking too much and for nights on end, he will shun our bed and prefer the computer and the internet for company.

I do not like it. I miss him the way he was. I miss him.

He wants to talk to me and stalls. He never found it difficult to jabber away, and this new awkwardness worries me, too. "What if I changed the way I look?" he asked me once, blurting out in a rush, a furious blush staining his cheeks.

"How?"

He blushes even more, fidgets and shies away from my gaze. "I mean, I spoke to some folks…"

I do not want to get what he is trying to say. He is slipping from me, and I feel like falling into some black hole, with nowhere to land.

He drops his mug of coffee. Shards and coffeeground spatter everywhere, and he kneels to clear up the mess with kitchen paper, dustpan and brush. I load the dishwasher, stealing glances at his bent back, his thin neck that is still flushed pink, the soft tendrils of hair that curl about his temples and ears. He takes too long to clean the floor now, his motions slow and listless, his posture slumped. He has changed into someone I do not recognise anymore.

"Heero," he murmurs, still down on his knees, hands full with stained paper and the dustpan. "I could have surgery to change."

I have to sit down now. Something is roiling in the pit of my stomach, taking away my breath and rendering me speechless. He looks up at me, eyes bitter and dark even through the smile that plays over his glossed lips. I want to hug him, shake him out of all this, but he rises to his feet before I can move and drops the rubbish into the garbage bin. "I have made some enquiries," he continues into the silence, over his shoulder so he does not have to look at me, and I can tell how hard it comes to him to talk about this stuff.

He is afraid of losing me, of us breaking apart, of me dropping him for I cannot understand him, and he knows that. If I had wanted a woman, I could have had one, but I wanted him, and the idea of sleeping with a woman does not do me any good. It's not that I don't like them, or that I feel somehow greater – but they do not attract me in that way. The image of him, whom I have seen fighting and killing, turning into just that… well, it does make me uncomfortable. How can he give up himself like that?

He is afraid, but not enough to stop here. "It's not your fault," he says, summing up what plagued me all those past months when it did not work between us in bed. "But it's not mine, either. At least," he wipes his eyes, a tense, weary gesture, "at least I know now."

At least this stubborn persistence is his own, as he keeps prodding, dropping hints, spoon-feeding me tidbits of information about what he plans to do with his body, although the thought of him cut and bleeding and stitched together like a ragdoll reminds me too much of what we've been through, and of what I do not want him to be.

He does not want the full hog, he tells me quietly, just enough to feel comfortable, wear the clothes he likes, carry off the looks he wants to achieve. It won't take that much, he is pretty, and the way he dresses is unobtrusive. He does not want to stick it out, he explains, it's no one's business but his – and mine. He wants to know what I think of it.

I can't think anything right now. I am reeling, sick and worried mindless; I have work to do and his rollercoaster depression to cope with.

He gives me a bleak look. His despair cuts me deeply, and I feel utterly inadequate in dealing with this. I want him back the way he was, easy, happy, full of boundless energy... what has happened to my tough, cheerful partner?

He is watching me like a hawk, and I'm sure he is cataloguing the slightest shift in my posture, the tiniest twitch in my face. Duo is good at that, nothing escapes his sharp eyes if he wants to see, and I feel naked and uncomfortable under his scrutiny. I wish he'd give me time to mull things over, to come to terms with this. Right now, I don't even know whether I will be able to do that.

"Am I nuts?" he asks, his tone brittle. "Heero, tell me, have I gone bananas?" He even tries a smile. The joke is Duo as I know him, making fun even of the worst situation, even when he's down in the dumps and can't see a way out and his life hangs by a thread.

"No, you're not," I tell him, for that spark of his old self is to me like rain to parched ground. It makes me hope that I can hold on to him, perhaps, and that these things will just go away: he will snap out of it and we will be back to normal. I am grasping at straws.

"They said I gotta see a shrink," he goes on, his voice firming up now, a rebellious twang to it, "So what could he know 'bout me that I don't? I know what I want. Why ain't I allowed to make my own decision? I won't hurt anyone with it, I won't cost anyone a penny – I'll pay for the friggin' lot – and I'm old enough to know. Done my duty, live a settled life, hold down a job, pay my taxes, wanna be discreet 'cos I know some folks have issues with it. And I'm still not allowed to sign something that says, yeah, I know what I'm doing, I'm aware of the risks, I've done my research, the doctor only does what I told him to do, and I'm not gonna sue anyone later." He pauses, and then adds, "They even wanna know how I like to do it in bed…"

He shoves a wad of papers across the table. A questionnaire he's been asked to complete. Reluctantly, I pick it up, begin to read and feel like gagging: why should he have three people keeping a permanent watch over him? What is it to them how we sleep with one another? Why should he announce his decision to all and sundry if all he wants is to be discreet and considerate of other people's views? And that's only the slightest part of it.

"They asked me which box I'd put myself in."

He sounds ill now, and I look up from the papers. He busies himself filling the kettle and spooning ground coffee into two mugs. His face is pale, drained of colour, with a sheen of sweat on his upper lip and his brow. "What did you say to them?"

He bites his lip and shrugs. "That they are the specialists. I don't care 'bout boxes, I feel ok 'bout myself except for a few small things... I don't even want to change everything. Man, I've done my duty, fought, worked, like everyone else and a tad more, so why do they have to box me?"

He is too modest. He could pocket all those people and walk away laughing – I know what he can do, and it's way more than he will admit without feeling embarrassed. He has broken and mended more times than they will ever fathom, he is strong and spirited, and I love him for that, and that he had down-times – well, lots of people have those and are considered normal. I do not want some shrink to wear him down, or some idiots to prod around in his mind until they are satisfied that they have messed him enough to class him as officially nuts, ready for one of their stupid boxes.

They know nothing. I realise that I don't know half of him, but I do know enough. "They want to put you into a box because people are scared by what they cannot label," I say, remembering too well what we went through during the wars.

"They told me some rubbish about a disorder. I don't feel disordered," he spits, another glimpse of his fighting spirit. Good. Much better. This IS Duo after all.

"You are not," I try to reassure him, and I mean it. "I'm the only one who has the right to have a problem with this."

He does not want to ask the obvious, and for that I am thankful because I could not give him a truthful answer: whether I would still like him with his body altered, the body I love the way it is, whether I would still be able to consider him my partner, my mate, my life. Perhaps I won't know this until it is all over and done with.

Yes, we both take a gamble here. And even though he is determined now and afraid, angry and hopeful all at once, he is not yet brave enough to dare me one step further. I am glad: we still understand one another without many words. He smiles a little, but when his glance slips back to the papers, I can see his eyes glitter with panic and disgust.

So I pick up the pack and wave it in front of his nose. "That's sick," I tell him, "don't let them do this to you."

He wipes his face with the back of his hand. "I fuckin' won't." He sounds comforted and grateful, though he is cross too, and I can see a bit more of his old self. I feel better for it, somewhat easier too, although wary. Still, he is right, and what they suggest to him angers me for it makes him look stupid and robs him of his dignity. I don't like that.

The kettle clicks off, and he turns to fill up our mugs. "They shouldn't be able to force you," I say to his back, slapping the papers back onto the table. "You should throw this lot and find someone who takes you seriously."

He swallows hard, a spark of appreciation and a wave of relief in his eyes, hands me my mug and sits down opposite me. We sip our drinks; the silence is companionable. He knows he has me as his backup now, and this reassures him, while it makes me feel that he still needs me, wants me, trusts me.

"We have more than sex, haven't we, Heero?" he murmurs, looking up at me from behind his mug. Consider that.

There hasn't been much in the way of that recently. I know he misses it, and feel like a loser because most evenings I'm just too tired to do more than dreaming of him, and when we do sleep together, I can't hold out long enough to give him the satisfaction he deserves. Thinking about it and watching myself when we do it makes matters worse, and he has been frustrated and occasionally, when his patience snaps, just desperate.

He blames his body. Himself. Me. But now, with these things going on in his mind, he appears more relaxed, more contented again. As though something had been brewing, forgotten in the rush of our fighting years and our attempt to build something resembling a normal existence, and is resurfacing now that we are calm and settled. Old priorities have shifted or gone away, we all have changed. We had enough time to come to ourselves. He's had time to think about it, he's battled it, struggled to come to terms, and now he's made up his mind and wants to be at ease.

They say most people break up when they have settled and should be content. But he still wants me to be happy, too. Longs for me to accept him… anew. Perhaps not all is lost for us; maybe I just need to think about it a bit more, though I don't really want to know.

I realise that he won't put up with denial any longer. He wants me to understand him, and I'm leaving all the effort to him because I have no idea how to handle this whole thing. But I can offer him support: I can listen, even if it makes me squirm what I hear; I can tell him that I'll help him raise the funds if he can't make it alone, and that I'll be around when he needs me. At least, I can give it a try – I owe him that for we've been partners through thick and thin for half a lifetime.

So I tell him this, and with amazement, I see him perk up and give me his first real smile in months. Shiny, bright, broad – Duo's smile.

That night, we make love. He offers me to do it the way I like it, and after months of battling me in bed for his demands, he just yields and seems happy enough.

We are closer than we have been for a long time.

He is happy. I am happy. I want him. I need him, no matter what his shell, because his soul, his heart, they're still his own.

Perhaps it IS that simple.

He is smiling at me, his eyes shining, begging forgiveness for something he cannot help, and I kiss him. "Go to sleep, baka," I tell him, rubbing slow circles over his back. It will send him to dreamland before long, and his smile takes on a hazy quality as his eyes drift shut and he relaxes into me.

I do not know where this journey will take us, him and me. But we have travelled darker roads together, and he is still mine. Because this is about more than sex.

And that's the long and the short of it.

**xxx**

**Next chapter: The Brightness of Dreams**

So he does not like his body. I got that alright. But... "Why, Duo? I just can't understand..."

He shrugs, a bit helpless. "Perhaps I don't have to pretend all the time that I'm the great fighter?"

And there is still the matter of our not-matching sex drive. "Heero... if we can't make it work... I mean, I don't want us to break apart, and what if we could find another way?"

I know he swings both ways, but now... "You mean, you want to take a lover? You want a girlfriend?"


	3. Chapter 3 The Brightness of Dreams

**The Brightness of Dreams**

Fandom: Gundam Wing  
Rating: NC-15/M  
Pairings: Duo with Heero  
Warnings: Male/Male love and references to sex.  
Disclaimer: I do not own them. All rights with their original owners.

Summary: Things coming to a head, what shrinks have to do with it all, and Duo in battle-mode...

**xxx**

Thank you for reviewing – much appreciated. This is the second sequel. I thought I could wrap everything up by now. Well, I'm not good at judging that sorta thing, so more follow-up chapters are likely to come, in time.

Let me know what you think, folks. Cheers.

**xxx**

So he does not like his body. I got that alright. But... "Why, Duo? I just can't understand..."

He shrugs, a bit helpless. "Perhaps I don't have to pretend all the time that I'm the great fighter?"

And there is still the matter of our not-matching sex drive. "Heero... if we can't make it work... I mean, I don't want us to break apart, and what if we could find another way?"

I know he swings both ways, but now... "You mean, you want to take a lover? You want a girlfriend?"

And when he says nothing but kneads his fingers as though he wants to break them off, one by one, I can only sigh. "Man, Duo, this is way over my head, but I should have thought THAT is rather normal for a bloke."

"Is not when I don't feel like one," he mutters, "it's confusing the hell outta me, too." Only sex, he tells me, and he looks ready to sink into the ground with shame. To his credit, he does tell me, in spite of what it must cost him to find the words and say them out loud. Slowly but surely, I come to believe that nothing can surprise anymore.

Perhaps that's part of it all.  
Duo is never boring.  
And he'd rather die that share those things with anyone but me. He is very private beneath his loud facade.

We are doing our household chores. Together, small routines, comforting and stable, homely and settled. I like it: to feel that we have a place where we belong, something steady in our always moving world. Duo is different. While I like being at home, he likes coming home.

I am cooking; he stuffs the washing machine, his movements a bit frantic as he flails and gesticulates while talking to me: "Who is saying what's normal anyway? Is it normal to get pissed and violent? Or whack your partner 'cos she can't beat you back? Or go trainspotting, or break the speed limit all the time? I've not done any of that, so why're they trying to make me a freak? Pluck me to bits so they can study how I fuck and why? It's private, for fuck's sake, and I'm not even doing it for a cheap thrill!" Duo pauses, anger stronger than hurt, and then he slams the machine shut, sets it rumbling, and says, matter of factly and with the tiniest hint of satisfaction, "I told the shrink I wouldn't tell him anything, and I didn't. He was nice, actually, and I was an ass, but he got the message, and I got my friggin' letter – here: officially not nuts, with a healthy distrust of persons in authority, unsuited for therapy." He emphasises the word 'healthy', and fairly spits out the rest.

Sounds like Duo alright. Even though he wanted this so badly, he would not be blackmailed into yielding. Or taking the word of a so-called expert for a gospel and crawl into a little hole in fear. No, Duo refuses to play the role of the poor cracked-up sod grovelling for help. I nearly laugh out loud at the picture that unfolds in my mind – my partner bristling and cross, trying hard to remain polite while he's stonewalling and steaming up into full battle mode, determined to get what he went out for without letting go of himself. He refuses to allow others to have power over him that way.

Except for me. He trusts me, absolutely and unconditionally.  
Because we are not just lovers. We are friends, too.  
I know him. I could have written that letter without charging him a lot of bucks.

All my pans are stewing away nicely. I make us coffee, and he fetches the milk from the fridge. Leaning against he kitchen counter by my side, he blows up his cheeks and pulls a face. "He tried to catch me out – told me of someone who thought he didn't need a shrink and turned out to be grateful he got one, but that guy had been sent for an assessment after having a fit of air rage. Assault and ciminal charges, that sorta thing."

I find it insulting that Duo should be compared to someone like that. "So what did you say?"

He takes his mug, says thank you, runs a hand through his hair and laughs a bit. "The obvious. That it was a non-starter 'cos I'm not violent and no criminal, only want a few bits of me reshaped."

I cannot help but wince and smile into my coffee. So easy – Duo's mind is as sharp as a razor, his logic acute and undimmed, and where his pride is scratched, he will muster his cool and his temper at the same time. Always the fighter, like a cornered wildcat; the worse the situation, the more he'll power up. He even manages to turn the tables on a shrink. Though it still rankles with him that he needed to stoop that low, that he has a shrink-file now that makes him a 'patient', but I comfort him. Sometimes, we just need to be pragmatic, we learned that during our wild years, ne? He gives me a grin, wide and wavering between nervous and happy. We are a bit easier about it all now, he and I, because I know it is still him, and perhaps he is more himself now that he's ever been.

How strange. He has not gone all mushy, he does not stagger around in high-heels; he accepts quite easily that there are things the surgeon's craft cannot alter, though he would like it if it were possible to have them done well. So he is being pragmatic, in good old Duo-fashion, and takes what life will give. Compromise. But he will haggle out the best bargain he can get and only then settle for it without regrets or resentment, after having exhausted every possible avenue. It gives him peace, and that gives me peace.

There is a downside to it all, of course, for when he's fought and haggled enough, he will slump, to drop so fast that sometimes I find it difficult to catch him and drag him back. He has not told the man who was trying to pry into his mind: there is no need for it because if anything, what Duo plans will help him ease up, and other people struggle with the same thing.

One of my pans boils over, and I turn down the heat. Duo puts the milk back in its place in the fridge door, and we settle by the table to finish our drinks.

The first stage of his battle is done and won. I know he is glad this is over, the first set of obstacles conquered, but I also know he is anxious now, afraid something will spoil it at the last moment. He has to wait now for an appointment, and he will only rest once things are actually happening – he is bad at waiting, he has no patience. I also know how he sounded when he rang me on the cellphone after he had seen all those people he had to see. He was bushed, his voice thin and worn out, a bit shaky too. He was worried about money and just wanted to go home, he told me, the train would be delayed, and how tired he was...

The thought of him trying to nod on his travel bag, alone at some cold, gloomy rail station gave me the creeps. I offered to pick him up. "Baka," he said, a smile lightening his tone a little, "that would mean you'd drive all night if the train gets stuck up here. I'll make my way alright, don't fret and don't wait up for me."

He is tough. He can make his way; it is important to him that I have enough faith that he will actually make it, but it is just as important he knows I'm there when he needs me. He arrived back home in the small hours, scolding me when he found me sitting at the kitchen table with my eyes drooping and two mugs of cold tea in front of me. But I could tell how glad he was, and how exhausted, and I began to prepare for the downturn I knew would hit us soon.

**xxx**

**Next chapter: Burn  
****This is likely to come uptowards the end2005 (a little sooner if I can manage).**


	4. Chapter 4 Burning

**Burning **

Fandom:Gundam Wing  
Rating:NC-15/M  
Pairings:Heero and Duo  
Warnings:Profanity, references to male/male love, angst  
Disclaimer:I do not own them although I would like that. All rights with their original owners.  
Spoilers:None.

Summary: Things are heating up for Duo and Heero while they question norms and normalcy and Heero feels unusually queasy…

**xxx**

Thank you again for reviewing – especially for such nice, sensitive feedback. I managed to get this chapter written much quicker than I thought, so here goes, and I hope you will let me know how you liked it. Cheers.

**xxx**

Odd how ingrained everyday details are, so much that we only begin to notice them when they are slightly off kilter.

For example the fact that Duo is a good half head taller than me, that he is undoubtedly male – something he dislikes deeply enough to want a change in that compartment – but that beneath his boisterous exterior he is brittle and easy to down. Or that he has hair that is way too long and too soft for a guy, that he is dyeing it a honeyed gold, and that he likes putting on the faintest hint of eyeliner and lip-gloss, which give his pretty face a strangely ambiguous appearance.

That he does not shop for clothes in the same department as me anymore, even though he does not wear anything definitely girly.

The day he first turned up at his workplace as what he feels is his new and true self, dressed in a pale green jumper and black jeans, his hair brushed into a glossy mane down to his narrow shoulders and some clear gloss on his lips, his boss did a double take, his colleagues looked a few times, and that was it. "They're ok," he said with great relief, "and I'm tryin' to make it easy for them."

He is walking a tightrope. I would not like to change places with him now. He is torn between tense and happy, black and white, his usual violent mood swings, yet throughout all this, I can detect a kind of quiet certainty within, something like a source of strength he has only now discovered, and he marvels and revels in it as though he'd found a new lease of life.

Perhaps it is true, but it has its drawbacks. We got a first taste of them when he went to buy a couple of books: the guy at the checkout eyed him a few times while Duo was queuing. When it was his turn, the bloke turned from polite to rude in the blink of an eye, more or less chucking the books at Duo, grunting monosyllables and refusing to look him in the face. Duo laughed it off, but I could see he was a bit shaken.

This kind of stuff does not find us unprepared, though I am wary about which forms it is going to take, and how much of that shit will hit us in the face.

Duo is trying to keep a hard hand on the whole process, he is in control alright, he has known hardship and can handle this and himself. But I can see it comes at a cost. He is always dead beat in the evenings. He says he doesn't function properly at work, though this has other reasons – the company is re-structuring, people in limbo and demotivated. It doesn't help that things seem to tumble in on him all at the same time.

He is selective in whom he trusts with all this: me.

He is also careful how much he tells people, and with whom he speaks. He can't see the need to bother anyone not involved, and I think he is right. As far as his close team are concerned, he will have surgery to his plumbing – he did not lie but left it to them to figure out the reason – and then he'd be off sick for a while. They have known him for some time, they feel for him, thinking of other reasons, which makes him squirm a little, but I think it gives everyone the option to think what they feel most comfortable with, and he has a breathing space. They offered help, and he is grateful. I talked him out of taking unpaid leave because it would be a giveaway he cannot afford without inviting a whole raft of unpleasantries.

Not that we haven't had our brushes with those already.

One evening we were walking down the street, my arm roundhis shoulders andhis hand onmy backside, in an easy, companionable way. A bunch of young blokes with their girlfriends passed us, then looked back as we walked on, and began to call him names I'd rather not repeat. They seemed to feel trodden over their male honour, and the girls were indignant at what they considered a parody of themselves.

He does not look like a parody. In his tee and jeans, with unbound hair and a tad more makeup because we were going out, he looked a lot tamer than most of the youngsters in that group. He dresses well, he grooms and turns himself out neat and tasteful. He has nothing of the overdone, desperate caricatures some people become, and I think those are not folk that really feel like him. Some of them are pushed to it if they submit to the process he insists on resisting, but those happy to display themselves on the telly strike me as mere thrill seekers, able to step out of it at any time they like.

He can't. Yet he does not sweeten up his voice or sway his hips, he won't down hormone bombs, he won't wear high heels or low-cut scraps of nothing. I liked him the way he was, tough and rough, but I have come to like his new look too, because – to my relief – it is not what I expected. But then, I am not exactly a neutral observer. I am heavily, irrevocably, unrepentantly biased. Because I found that I still love him.

He is brave, in a quiet, firm way. Something I recognise as Duo, true to himself, for he cannot sustain a lie. So I rediscover him and find he still is my partner, my friend, the madness in my life and the stillness too. Now he wants a girl who feels like him, only the other way round, and he even told me that, but he wants me too. Right.Not that I find this easy to stomach, but it dawns on me that perhaps, what we have is so unusual that it defies so-called norms.

Well, we were never good at norms, anyway. Our focus has shifted away from sex, as though a layer of mist has been peeled back, to reveal what is beneath: hard, shiny, solid. Trust. Affection. Understanding. Old-fashioned and enduring. As long as we have this, sex is sex, andthisis something different.

On second thought, it might not be surprising that we sleep with one another more often now. I try to learn, he is more patient. It feels good. He is happier.

He showed me the brochure the surgeon gave him. It got me scared. Process that. He wants his nuts removed, his chest reshaped to achieve a bit more softness there, and leave it at that. To let his body, deprived of a stream of hormones, do the rest of the work until it finds its own balance. I am not icky but it made me ill to look at the pictures, let alone read through a description of the procedure. Into hospital, a few hours out cold on the operation table, out after a day and a night, hopefully no bleeding, drains and stitches that have to be removed after a few days. He has booked a hotel for he won't be able to travel back home and it is better for him to stay near the clinic. Neither does he want to bother me and declines my offer to pick him up with the car. It worries me sick, knowing he will be on his own for those days after the operation, in pain, and struggling with the aftermath of the anaesthetic. If things should start to go wrong, he has to drag himself back somehow and pay for another stunt at the clinic. Other than that, he is supposed to cope on over-the-counter painkillers and walk around to avoid blood clots.

So I've seen worse than a few long, smooth expert cuts with a scalpel, tidily sutured afterwards. I've seen Duo in much worse shape than that. But it's him, and his vitals, and it suddenly feels so very unnecessary… I swallow what I want to say, will not try to talk him out of it. Me nagging him is the last thing he needs now.

I am sure I'm not a coward, but I've never been good at seeing him suffer. It makes me feel utterly useless, helpless, and I want to throw things around and shout off my frustration when he can't hear me. As it is, I tell him I won't have any nonsense, and that I WILL pick him up because he is forbidden even from carrying a full kettle, let alone luggage, while the wounds are fresh. "On the train then," he says, a smile brightening his face, and I can see how grateful he is, "I wouldn't want to cram into a car with my bottoms hurting an' all."

So that's what we will do. I borrowed the money he will need. We are all set.

I feel like at the peak of a rollercoaster, staring down into a milling abyss, the moment before the whole load shoots down at breakneck speed, when your stomach lurches and the urge to puke becomes almost overwhelming, and then you can't think any longer through the explosion of noise and colours…

I'd like to hold on to that peak. Just for a little.  
Duo tends to rush things. He is in a hurry to take the plunge.

He's always been somewhere in between, he tells me one evening, resting against me, his elbow poking into my ribs, his hair splayed over my shoulder. Playing with the girls more than with the boys, always too open with what he feels, too dependent on someoneloving him. Trying to fit in, prove that he can be Mr Tough Guy... well, I'd say he did that with overwhelming success. He smiles vaguely as I tell him, and I realise all his running and hiding has something to do with it - he was never at home with himself, though I swear when I fell for him, hehad nothing girlish about him. He was trying to fit his role, cut out for him by others. He trusts me enough to drop it now.

He is playing with me, smoothing his hand down my side, my stomach, over my nipples, down my arms, tracing my contours and watching my reactions: sigh, groan, shudder, hardening slowly. I love his touch, except when he starts picking, something that never ceases to embarrass me. Nails nipping my skin, prodding and tugging at any tiny imperfection, until I jump and growl at him, and then he will hurriedly smooth over any welts with kisses and caresses.

Thinking back, I can see what he is saying. His hair. His warmth. His ease in the company of Hilde, his anger at folk like us who cannot love the other sex. Anger that turned out to be denial, transforming to remorse and reluctant, scared acceptance of what he is now. A guy living with another bloke, and perhaps not quite a guy after all. He tried the so-called normal life, too, with Hilde. It would not work, even though they are still on good terms because he was honest enough not to use her as a façade. I can see he is confused, hell, I am too, but he has had to walk all this way by himself, and now he stands out in the glaring light, facing it as he faced down danger and death many a time.

He has come a long way. So have I, from dead-straight to loving my best friend who happened to be a guy, to loving him still, whatever he is now. I feel no regret, no resentment, only wonder, surprise and a great wariness of what lies ahead of us. And I hope that we will be unusual enough to see it through.

**xxx**

**Next chapter: At Peace**


	5. Chapter 5 Trying for Peace

**Trying for Peace**

When I arrived to collect him from the small hotel, Duo was as white as chalk, with dark rings around his eyes, his hair limp and greasy, his cheeks hollowed out. He looked ill and in pain, and he had the stale smell of illness about him, too, the reek of desinfectant, sweat and patchy hygiene.

We knew all of this. Memories of the wars we fought. I had hoped they would have faded into the past forever, only to find him wounded, bandaged up, and fatigued enough to die. Though this time, he had brought it upon himself, with deliberation and intent.

I felt numb. Tried to help him into his jacket and ended up draping it loosely over his shoulders, over the days-old tee he had slept in too because he hurt so much he could not lift his arms to strip the rag off and change into a fresh shirt. I could not look at him, at his body, and carefully kept my eyes on his face, or elsewhere, just not on his shape.

Until he leaned against me and whispered, "Don't wanna see me now?"

I held him, not sure whether to draw him close or what else to do. So I just kept my arm angled around his shoulders, cautious not to press him against me, and my fingers laced into his hair. "I don't know," I answered, unable to lie now.

He dipped his face into my hair. "Home," he murmured exhaustedly.

**xxx**

The trains were delayed, we had a bit of rushing around to do to chase after the connections, missed one, had to wait, and all the time, he was as quiet as a mouse save for those small sounds of pain that occasionally slipped his lips, and he looked awfully pale. He was fading, staggering about with a dazed look on his face, and sagging into me every time we stopped.

It scared me.

The whole shit scared me because I felt helpless and utterly out of my depth.

Not perfect at all.

**xxx**

I was glad about the distraction work provided. It was piling high on my desk, and my mailbox was crammed with messages, so I plunged in and ploughed my way through paperwork, case-studies, briefings and a few extremely cranky messages, each subsequently more urgent, from Zechs regarding the Terraforming Project. He was awaiting a delivery of heavy machinery, plus one of the Preventer Special Agents. Neither had arrived so far, and I went hunting for the lot.

It would have been useful to believe that I had put Duo out of my mind while I was working, but I couldn't. At the back of my mind, something kept humming, like the faint white noise of bad radio reception, and I found myself staring at a sheet of text for minutes without reading while having come tea and wondering whether he was ok, at home by himself.

Leaving the office, I could not wait to get home, but when I arrived, my steps slowed, and a heavy sensation settled in my chest. It would have been great to see a few mates that evening; it occurred to me that Quatre had complained a little about Trowa being out and about for weeks on end, and that we had not heard from Wufei for ages...

The door opened a crack and a worn, pale face greeted me, with a faint smile that shone from dusky eyes. "Heero..." Duo stepped aside to let me in.

This time, it would have been rude to turn away, and so I looked. At his face, his hair – "Man, Duo, the brochure said you should not wash your hair and stuff where you have to lift your arms." I slung my bag into the corner behind the door and hung my jacket on the peg.

He had made an effort to turn himself out presentable. He looked better in his favourite green jumper and a pair of grey draw-string trousers, and he clung to the doorknob to steady himself. Pain. I could read it deep in his eyes, through the smile and the warmth that greeted me there. "Is ok, Heero. I have to get on with it now. I made dinner... well, I tried," he said quietly, his voice tight and way too controlled for Duo.

I could not help but notice what I was not sure I wanted to see: a rounding of his chest, ever so slight but there, a mere softening of its former angular contours, and a smoothness to his groin that made me wince. Suddenly, my throat felt thick and woolly, and I definitely did not want to see him undressed.

We ate mostly in silence, though he tried to talk and even managed to crack a few jokes, but he gave up when I returned only grunts and kept staring at my plate. After an uncomfortable silence, he got up to put the radio on and do the washing up. With his back to me, I felt less put on the spot, and I looked again. From behind, he had not changed at all, same slim, sharp lines, bony shoulders, narrow hips, lanky arms and long legs. Duo as I knew him. As I loved him.

But there was his hair that he had changed to suit his idea of himself, and that fell over his shoulders a glossy gold, freshly washed and fragrant with apple shampoo. And his front...

I found I had lost my appetite and pushed back my half-empty plate of rice and stew even though he had done well and it was tasty.

As I shoved back my chair, he said over his shoulder, "Can you help me wash? I stink, and I can't do it myself. I tried, it's only that I can't reach behind me, and a shower would soak the bandages."

**xxx**

The day he took off the wads of cotton and elasticated strips of white fabric... It was not as bad as I had feared, but it still made me nauseous to see those huge scars where his flesh had been slashed and sutured, two long, wide strips of knotted skin, burning an angry crimson to both sides of his chest. That showed the faintest rounding, no more than some blokes have anyway when they drink too much beer and put on weight. On his skinny frame, it looked odd.

And down between his thighs... something missing. Incomplete. Neither one thing, nor another. Too little, or too much, out of balance, the perfection of natural design destroyed.

I knew he was watching me. So I had seen the brochure with before-and-after photographs, and was kind of prepared. But I wasn't. He looked raw and ugly in those places, pain made flesh, and for some reason, I was disgusted and angry with him.

It was wrong. It suddenly felt terribly, irrevocably wrong, and a whole mountain came crashing down on me – I should have been stronger, talked him out of it, banged him more often the way he liked, or let him bang me to confirm his masculinity, so what now, I don't like this one bit, I cannot betray him now, after all I reassured him, told him we'd be in this together-

"You don't like it." A statement, dry and unsurprised. Duo smiled at me, without warmth. "That's ok, Heero. You don't have to look." He turned around. "I'm sorry to ask, but can you help me please? Only for a few more days. Scrub my back a bit with the washcloth, here. I'll do the rest."

He sat down on the edge of the bathtub and pulled a towel across his lap as he hunched his back and reached up to gather his hair and lift it out of the way. From behind, he still was Duo as I knew him, well, except for his hair, and that did not count. Not really, not anymore, because it was such an easily changed feature. How could he appear so laid back about all this? I was fraying.

I trailed the wet washcloth over his bony back and wondered how he would feel if all those sharp angles and nooks of his body began to fill out, to mellow and round somewhat. It would happen slowly, and not much because Duo refused to take anything to force his body down that line, but he had been radical with the rest.

How could we now sleep with one another?

Did I still want to sleep with him?

It hit me like a train, there, in the bathroom while I was washing his back and he was sitting still, head bent low, neither leaning into my touch nor avoiding it. "Duo..." I trailed off – what could I say? How could I ask him THAT? Now? I should have asked before he had someone chop at his body and take away something there, add a bit in another place, tug and pull and cut and sew him into someone I did not know.

"Yeah?"

"How does it feel?" No, I never was good with words, always a tad too blunt, which is fine in my line of work.

"Odd," he said quietly, without moving.

He had the knack of throwing me, even when I thought nothing could shock me anymore. "Odd?"

"Yeah. It's like I'm neither here nor there. But it's ok."

I sat down behind him, my legs a bit wobbly, and I needed his warmth. "How ok if it's odd?"

He shrugged a little, winced – he still hurt – and then cautiously leaned back against me. I always liked the way his skin feels, all muscle underneath but smooth and soft for a guy, and much warmer than mine. Unthinkingly, I kissed him on the shoulder. Call it a reflex; I had kissed him like that countless times, it was soothing, familiar, something we would not do in public, something belonging only to us.

He stiffened a bit against me. "Dunno. I'm glad it's done. Road of no return, that sorta thing, yanno?"

End of months of agony and soulsearching, of storms of depression, bleak and blacker than night, of him falling into those black pits and barely able anymore to scramble back out, with me unable to reach him down there and watching, so damn, agonisingly helpless. Until he had made his decision, and calmed down. Looking back, I realised it was then that he had begun to change. Accepted himself. Learned to like what he was.

"You feel squeamish 'bout me now?"

I did not know. I had hardly looked at him. "I'd like to hold you," I said, still rubbing slowly up and down his back. "And I'd like to go to bed now, or I'll fall asleep at my desk tomorrow, and that would never do."

**xxx**

So we get up, and he pulls on an oversized white tee and briefs that lay neatly folded on the toilet lid, and only then he turns towards me with a nervous smile. His eyes are still the same, a dusky shade of blue, and they shine at me with the same love as before. "I'm just gonna brush my teeth, and then I'm done in here," he says.

"Hai." I can do that in the kitchen, therefore I leave him to whatever he needs to do in here.

A little later, he crawls into bed with me, but keeps himself carefully cocooned into the cover so that I don't have to touch him.

"Duo?"

"Hm?" He turns his face to me, smile in place, wide and jittery. Very Duo.

"I meant it. Let me feel you." Learn him anew, from scratch, hoping to discover enough of the old sensations along the way to reassure myself that I can handle this.

Without a word, he tugs at the folds of the cover until I can feel it slip from between us. Touch his skin. Slide my hands over his arm, sinewy and bony, up to an angular shoulder, down skinny ribs and a high hip bone, along a muscular thigh. Enough of him to tell me it really still is him. "Those scars... how bad do they still hurt?"

"Not too bad," he says quietly, but I can hear the tension in his tone.

I don't ask. I touch. Feeling knotty, puckered flesh, flinching muscle beneath jagged skin. Then softness, a couple of small mounds that fit into the palm of my hand. I do not like the feel of them one bit, this is not him. He lays still, letting my hands explore his new body that is not really new, and yet, and yet...

He shifts a little to make it easier for me to touch him down there, and I nearly cry with shock and loss. Don't know whether some sound made it past my bitten lips when Duo winces and squirms away from me.

Yes, I can still have him. I would not even have to see if he would lie on his stomach when I make love to him, and I could still jerk him off along the way. Right then, I felt nauseous and full of sorrow.

He rolls over onto his side, his back to me, and drags the cover over his shoulders until he his all wrapped up with only a swath of hair peeping out.

This I cannot bear. Anything but not him closing me off like that, letting himself spiral down into one of those hellholes of depression and stupidity that sometimes scare me for him.

And so I spoon around him and wrap him in my arms, his lanky form fitting nicely as always into the curve of my chest, stomach and thighs, and my nose against the nape of his neck. He still is that annoying tad taller than me, and the somewhat cynical thought strikes me that they cannot fix that for all their surgical skills. Feeling his front is a definite turn-off, but it doesn't matter right now because I want to hold him, not bang him. We'll figure something out later, I tell myself, we sure will. We were always good at improvising. We're tough, as a team. As friends. As soulmates. He has always been nuts, and I levelheaded. So nothing new here, right?

He smells good. His own scent.

Perhaps, it vaguely crosses my mind as it tots up the total, not much has changed after all. Even the tiny whisps of hair at the back of his neck feel the same as I kiss him there. "Good night, Duo."

And I can hear the exhaustion in his voice, along with his smile as he replies, "Good night, Heero."

I still love him.  
I still wonder how it would be to have sex with him now.  
I don't like the idea.

**xxx**


End file.
